“Where are you going?” Suzy asks.
“I have to check that house, then I’ll be right behind you.”
She raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe me.
“I promise,” I say. “You get a head start.”
She blinks, powdery ash drifting away from her lashes. Even her soft russet hair is now a charcoal-gray. “Okay,” she says, nodding, and she and Mr. Perkins continue away from the lake, through the dirty gray snow. If they don’t slow down, they’ll make it down the mountain. They’ll make it out before the fire reaches them.
But my heart won’t let me leave until I know he’s safe.
Adrenaline roars through me.
The fire has already started tearing apart several of the other homes set farther back in the trees, roofs burning, windows broken out, curtains billowing with the wind while flames lick up the walls.
The fire is a storm now. Sparks instead of snow. Ash instead of cold. It’s blown down from the mountains, from the north, and it won’t stop until it’s devoured everything.
Until there’s nothing left.
The snow in front of the Harrison cabin is still deep, and my boots sink in up to my knees with each step. My breathing is quick, lungs like daggers scraping against my ribs. When I reach the porch, I grab the railing and use it to pull myself up—hand over hand—the spellbook tucked under my arm.
I know I’m running out of time; flames have already reached the trees behind the house. Limbs snapping, snow melting from leaves, bark wheezing as it peels away.
A light shivers from the front windows, a dim glow—hardly visible through the smoke.
I don’t bother knocking—there’s no time—I yank open the door and burst into the living room.
The room is dark, woven with shadows. A long dining room table that must seat ten people sits against one wall, and a broad fireplace burns hot on the other.
And on the couch, someone is asleep—a boy—a blanket half pulled over him.
Oliver.
My heart stops beating and I take a step closer, hope rising dangerously up into my chest.
“Hello?” I ask. I can’t make out his face, partially covered by an arm, but then he rolls onto his side and the arm drops away. The motion startles him awake and he flinches upright—pale-blond hair pressed awkwardly to one side.
It’s not Oliver. Not Oliver.
It’s someone else—a boy I don’t recognize. With a narrow face and bright-blue eyes.
Disappointment sinks through me.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask right back.
He tilts his head, confused. And I feel my expression draw tight—both of us unsure of the other. I survey the house quickly: the small kitchen with plates stacked high, cans of food on the wood counter, cupboards left open. He’s pilfered whatever he could find—which surely wasn’t much, considering the Harrisons rarely visit their summer home. Expired dried beans and stewed tomatoes left behind. Emergency food. A bottle of bourbon sits on the coffee table beside the boy, only a few sips left at the bottom. He’s been in here getting drunk. Maybe he ran away from the boys’ camp, maybe he’s been in here since the party a few houses down—still wasted, no idea what day it is.
I scowl and he scowls back.
“You have to get out of here,” I tell him sharply, turning away to head for the door—whoever this boy is, I don’t care, he just needs to leave.
But he doesn’t move from his place on the couch. “Why?”
“There’s a fire heading down the mountain.” I point to the window, so he can see for himself.
He scratches at his head, messing up his unwashed hair even more, and he squints—eyes groggy, cheeks flushed. “Doubt it,” he answers, sinking back into the couch. “You’re just messing with me.” And then his eyelids snap open wider and he lifts a finger to the air, like he’s making a point. “Wait, are you that moon girl? The one who lives down the shore?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, he just assumes I must be. Who else could I be—a girl way out here in the forest? “I heard you curse boys and lock them in your basement.” He laughs to himself, rubbing his face with his palm. “And I’m not going anywhere with you.”
I blow out a sharp, irritated breath and walk back to the door. “I don’t give a shit what you do, but if you stay in here, you’ll die.”
He sucks in his lower lip and looks hurt—a little kid who was told he can’t play in his tree fort anymore. “Wait!” he calls before I step back outside. “Is the road clear?” he asks. “Did the cops come?” His eyes flash to the door still open behind me, the strange biting wind blowing inside, a mix of winter air and ash.
“What?” I turn back to face him, head throbbing—I need to get out of here, there’s no time. I need to find Oliver.
“I mean, did someone come looking for me?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “You just need to leave.”
He stands up suddenly and looks past me again. He’s wearing green sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt that reads WORLD’S GREATEST FISHERMAN, and I’m almost positive he didn’t bring this outfit with him but likely found it inside the house. Buried in a dresser drawer, mothballs rolling around inside. His expression sinks—a shade of darkness slips across his face. “Did they find the body?” he asks grimly, voice hardly more than a scratch.
“What body?” I ask, afraid I already know what he’s talking about.
He squints at me like he’s sizing me up, trying to figure out my true intention for busting into his hiding place.
“Who are you?” I ask again, something beginning to thread its way along my spine, vertebra by vertebra. Brittle bone by brittle bone.
He hesitates and shifts his jaw side to side like a saw. “Max.”
Max, Max, Max.
“You’re Max?” I ask, and I can feel the color leave my cheeks. The heat slipping out through my toes.
“Yeah.” He narrows his focus on me, his skin pale and sunken. He needs a shower. He needs sunlight.
Max is alive.
Not dead. Not dead at all.
Every inhale burns my lungs, and I clear my throat, blinking. Blinking away the smoke. Blinking away this boy who can’t be Max.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” I say.
His mouth snaps shut. His face corkscrews together.
“They said you were dead,” I continue. “The other boys. They said you drowned.”
Sparks begin to tumble in through the open doorway, blowing across the wood floor—the fire close now, right outside. We can’t stay here.
“I’m not dead,” he answers—stating the obvious—as if I couldn’t see for myself. But his tone is off—something not quite right. Something else just beneath the surface of his words.
My hands begin to tremble. “I don’t understand,” I say. Maybe he’s the wrong Max, I think. A different Max. I slide my shaking hand into my coat pocket, feeling for the smooth surface of the watch, and I pull it out, holding it in my palm. I touch the back, where Max’s name is inscribed into the metal. “Is this yours?” I ask, holding it out for him to see.
He steps forward. “I thought it was gone,” he says, but he doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t try to take it from me, as if he is glad to be rid of it. A memory he didn’t want. A thing he’s been trying to forget.